


A Bunker Christmas Carol

by blue_morning



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A Christmas Carol AU, Apologies to Charles Dickens, Canon-ish, Destiel - Freeform, Fluff, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, SPN Holiday Mixtape, SPN Holiday Mixtape 2017, but divergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 09:43:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13097454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_morning/pseuds/blue_morning
Summary: Thank God. His room. His bed. His memory foam. Dean sits down heavily and takes off his boots. He strips down to his boxers and lies back under the covers, just for a second, to rest his eyes and settle his stomach because the room is spinning.The room is also, for some reason, really damn cold. Dean draws in a frigid breath.Uh, that’s not a good sign. He cracks an eyelid and nearly has a heart attack. Charlie is sitting cross-legged on his bed. She’s in jeans and a black tee shirt emblazoned with the House Targaryen dragon. She’s slightly transparent and glowing in the dim room and long chains dangle from manacles around her wrists.“Hey, Dean.”





	A Bunker Christmas Carol

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you to my amazing betas Speary, VioletHaze and ThePamelaOracle.
> 
> Thank you to the mods for another great challenge!
> 
> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to you!

The walk back to his bedroom is difficult. Dean has to stop a couple of times along the bunker’s corridor, swaying against the wall, his outflung arm catching him before he can fall. Whoa, the eggnog was a lot stronger than he thought. He’d only had, what, four? Five at the most. Okay, six if you were gonna be all accurate about it and count the tasting to make sure the bourbon to dairy ratio was correct. Six eggnogs while decorating the tree with Sam and Cas.

Thank God. His room. His bed. His memory foam. Dean sits down heavily and takes off his boots. He strips down to his boxers and lies back under the covers, just for a second, to rest his eyes and settle his stomach because the room is spinning. The room is also, for some reason, really damn cold. Dean draws in a frigid breath. _Uh, that’s not a good sign._ He cracks an eyelid and nearly has a heart attack. Charlie is sitting cross-legged on his bed. She’s in jeans and a black tee shirt emblazoned with the House Targaryen dragon. She’s slightly transparent and glowing in the dim room and long chains dangle from manacles around her wrists. “Hey, Dean.”

“Charlie?” Dean asks, befuddled. 

She leans close, chains on her arms rattling, and says in a deep, theatrical voice. “Ask me who I was.''

“What the fuck. Charlie? What...” He shakes his head and screws his eyes tightly shut. How many eggnogs did he have? He’s dreaming maybe. Or hallucinating. Ghosts can’t get into the bunker.

“Ask me who I was.'' The voice is still there. Dean feels someone patting his leg through the covers. And the room is still fucking cold. He bets that if he opens his eyes he’ll be able to see his breath.

“Charlie? How’d you get in here? Place is warded to shit.” He opens his eyes. Charlie’s still there.

“ **Dude, ask me who I was.** '' She pokes him in the shoulder this time with a particularly pointy and all-too-solid-feeling finger.

“Ow. Ow. Shit, Okay, _stop that._ Who were you?”

She leans forward, and still in that deep voice says, “In life I was your partner, Jacob Marley.''

“What? Who?”

“Jacob Marley? _A Christmas Carol_?” she leans back, the chains vanishing from her arms. 

“You’re Goofy?”

“Not _Mickey’s Christmas Carol_ , you idiot. The original. By Charles Dickens? Seven Hells, Dean. Do you even read?

“I read,” he says defensively. “You just surprised me is all. Seriously, how did you get in here anyway? This place is warded up tighter than a drum.” 

“Pfft. Please.You invited me in here when I was alive, so I get like a permanent pass.”

“Okay, so what do I owe the pleasure of your visit at,” he sits up and peers at the clock beside the bed, “11:32 on Christmas Eve?”

Charlie doesn’t answer, just gives him a look, and starts to read from a thin, leather-covered book that has suddenly materialized in her hands:

“ _You will be haunted,'' resumed the Ghost, “by Three Spirits._ ''

Charlie breaks off to look significantly at him. “Three spirits,” she mouths exaggeratedly, before finding her place in the book again.

“ _Is that the chance and hope you mentioned, Jacob?'' he demanded, in a faltering voice._

_“It is.''_

_“ -- I think I'd rather not,'' said Scrooge."_

“Yeah, me neither,” Dean contributes. Charlie ignores him, and continues reading.

“ _Without their visits,'' said the Ghost, “you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first to-morrow, when the bell tolls One._ ” 

She shuts the book with a snap. “Except we’re kind of on an accelerated schedule here. Expect the first in about twenty minutes, we have to get this done before morning.”

“Charlie,” Dean says, trying for sincere and logical. “In case you didn’t see it with your super ghost vision, I like Christmas just fine. Did you not notice the tree? The garlands? The empty eggnog glasses?

“Oh, this isn’t about Christmas, Dean. You embrace the spirit of Christmas just fine. This is about something else you should be embracing.” She gives him yet another significant look, “Or, more specifically, someone.” 

Dean flops back on his pillow. “Cas? Dude. _We. Are. Just. Friends_.”

Charlie drops the dramatic reading voice, sarcasm dripping from her tone. “Sure Jan. Just friends.” She rolls her eyes. “You two stare at each other way more than any _friends_ I’ve ever known. And you knew who I meant without me even saying his name.”

He pulls a pillow over his face, so his voice is muffled, “For fuck’s sake, Charlie, I get this enough from Sam. Why don’t you go haunt him instead, you could have a sleepover, braid each other’s hair.”

“Twenty minutes, Dean,” she says, and when Dean pulls the pillow off his head, she’s gone and the room is warm again.

***

Welp, he’s feeling disturbingly sober after that interaction. If there’s gonna be another ghost showing up, maybe a beer might not be a bad thing. He pulls on some sweatpants and a bathrobe over his boxers and pads down the hallway towards the kitchen. He can hear Sam snoring behind the closed door to his bedroom. Cas’s door is ajar, and Dean can’t help himself from peeking in. Cas is a rounded lump under the covers. _Just checking up on him. Making sure he’s okay. Like friends do_.

He’s just back in his room, lying on his bed, sipping his beer, when the room goes cold again. Dean closes his eyes and sighs. When he opens them again. Kevin is standing at the end of his bed in dark jeans and a tee shirt with a picture of Beethoven wearing headphones. His hair is shaggier than Dean remembers.

“Kevin! Hey, you look good. Definite upgrade from the coffee maker.” 

Kevin glares at him. “Real funny, Dean.”

Dean’s voice softens. “It’s good to see you Kevin. I’ve missed you.”

Kevin starts to smile, then thinks better of it and schools his features into hardness. “Shut it, Dean. We’re on the clock here. I’m here to show you your past. To remind you how you and Cas met.”

Dean grins at his manufactured grumpiness, but then Kevin reaches forward and grabs onto his wrist. 

There’s a feeling of wind, of being buffeted by a cyclone, and suddenly Dean and Kevin are standing in a barn. A familiar barn. There are sigils painted on the walls. Sigils on the ceiling, and all over the concrete floor. And over in the middle of the floor, sitting on a table, playing with the demon knife and looking bored out of his skull, Dean sees himself. Younger — pissier, too if the way he snaps at Bobby, sitting opposite him on another table, is any indication — but definitely him. 

_Past Dean looks up from digging the knife into the table. “You sure you did the ritual right?” Bobby gives him a look, and Dean has the grace to look ashamed. “Sorry. Touchy, touchy, huh?”_

_A loud rattling shakes the roof, corrugated metal sheets tearing away from the wooden framing and crashing back down. Dean and Bobby grab shotguns off the table and point them at the barn doors, barred with a heavy board slotted into position._

_“Wishful thinking, but maybe it's just the wind.” Dean says. And then the room is filled with the sparks of exploding light bulbs. Bobby and Dean duck instinctively and aim the shotguns at the doors._

_The sigil-covered doors bow inwards until the board snaps, and Castiel strides forward into the barn, walking unimpeded over a devil’s trap painted on the floor, heedless of the shower of sparks from the bulbs still bursting as he walks underneath them._

_As he approaches, Dean and Bobby both open fire, but the shots don’t even slow him down. Dean puts the shotgun down and picks up the demon knife, holding it behind him as Castiel gets close._

_“Who are you?” Dean asks, circling to keep Castiel in front of him._

_“I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”_

_“Yeah. Thanks for that,” Dean grits out before rearing back and plunging the knife into Castiel’s chest._

Dean still remembers how it felt to stab Cas. The bone jarring shock of it when he rammed the blade home, and the little smirk Cas gave him before glancing down at the hilt protruding from his chest and then holding Dean’s eyes while he pulled it out and dropped it, the most classic of mic drops. Seeing it happen again, in front of him, Dean has to admit it’s kind of hot in a disturbing way. Because it was also really fucking scary at the time. He looks over at Kevin, who impatiently gestures for him to watch the tableau unfolding before them.

_At that moment, Bobby swings at Castiel with a tire iron, and without taking his eyes from Dean, Castiel grabs Bobby’s weapon. He swings Bobby around with it and touches two fingertips to Bobby’s forehead. Bobby crumples to the ground._

_“We need to talk, Dean. Alone.”_

_Dean crouches over Bobby, checking his pulse. He glares at Castiel._

_“Your friend's alive.” Castiel is standing at the table leafing through one of the spell books they’d used to summon him._

_“Who are you?” Dean asks._

_“Castiel.”_

_“Yeah, I figured that much, I mean what are you?”_

_Castiel looks up from the book and holds Dean’s eyes. “I'm an Angel of the Lord.”_

_Dean’s silent for a moment, getting to his feet and staring back at Castiel. “Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing.”_

_Castiel turns from the table. He faces Dean and says with great deliberation, “This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith.” Dean’s eyes widen as lightning flashes outside the barn, and thunder roars. Behind Castiel, huge shadowy wings appear, opening and stretching out across the ceiling of the barn. The lightning stops and the image disappears._

God, Dean remembers the feeling of awe that came over him at that moment. He resented the hell out of it, but he couldn’t deny it. He couldn’t look away from those wings and the blue fire of Cas’s eyes. That was the moment his life changed. Nothing was the same after that.

_Trying not to show how strongly he’s been affected by seeing Castiel’s wings, he scoffs, “Some angel you are. You burned out that poor woman's eyes.”_

_Castiel looks discomfited. He stares at his feet. “I warned her not to spy on my true form. It can be... overwhelming to humans, and so can my real voice. But you already knew that.”_

_“You mean the gas station and the motel. That was you talking?” Cas nods. “Buddy, next time, lower the volume.”_

_“That was my mistake.” Cas says. “Certain people, special people, can perceive my true visage. I thought you would be one of them. I was wrong.”_

_Dean’s recovered enough to get pissy again. “And what ‘visage’ are you in now, huh? What, holy tax accountant?”_

_“This?” Castiel says, smiling a little and pulling at the lapels of the shotgun-ventilated trench coat, “This is... a vessel.”_

_“You're possessing some poor bastard?” Dean’s incredulous._

_“He's a devout man,” Castiel explains. “He actually prayed for this.”_

_“Well, I'm not buying what you're selling, so who are you really?”_

_Castiel tilts his head and frowns. “I told you.”_

_“Right. And why would an angel rescue me from Hell?” Dean’s voice is disbelieving._

_Castiel moves closer to him. “Good things do happen, Dean.”_

Dean remembers the warring emotions he felt at that moment, as Cas walked towards him. He could feel the weight of Cas’s attention, the laser focus of his scrutiny. It was uncomfortable, and unnerving; and, now he can admit it to himself, thrilling in a way he didn’t want to define.

_Dean pauses, and spits out, “Not in my experience.”_

_“What's the matter?” Castiel says, tilting his head again. “You don't think you deserve to be saved.” It’s a statement, not a question._

_Dean huffs out a breath. “Why'd you do it?”_

_Castiel presses his lips together, and then answers slowly and deliberately, “Because God commanded it. Because we have work for you.”_

Dean starts and sits up. Kevin’s gone. He’s alone in his room. He leans back against the pillows. Huh, he’d forgotten how from the very beginning, from the moment they met, Cas had seemed to look right inside him. Cas seemed to see how undeserving he felt, how useless he thought he was back then — as a hunter and a brother. How from the very beginning he’d known Dean in a way that no one else had. And he hadn’t backed off, he hadn’t left, he’d shown up again and again, pushing into Dean’s personal spaces, long after Dean stopped being his mission. Long after Dean was his friend, the one he’d rebelled for. Dean draws his knees up and hugs them, thinking hard.

***

Some time later, the room gets cold again. Dean looks up and sees a figure coalescing in the center of the room. Slowly it takes shape. Jo Harvelle is standing there. But he’s never seen her like this. She’s wearing a pink gown that leaves her shoulders bare, her blonde hair is a riot of curls held back by a tiara of stars, and she has honest-to-goodness fairy wings sprouting from her back. It’s strangely familiar. In a moment he gets it and starts to laugh. 

“OH my fucking GOD, Jo, you’re the Ghost of Christmas Present from _Scrooged_.” 

Jo is not happy about the way she’s manifested if the scowl on her face is any indication. She mutters something uncomplimentary about Chuck under her breath. This just makes Dean laugh harder.

“Laugh it up, asshole. Maybe I’ll hit you with a toaster.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, wiping away actual tears of laughter. “It’s a good look for you.” 

The glare she gives him is poisonous. She tugs the tiara from her head and starts trying to comb the curls out with her fingers. “We don’t have time for this,” she says impatiently. “We gotta go.” She reaches for his hand.

He snatches it away before she can grab it. “Slow your roll, Joanna Beth. Where are we going?”

“We are gonna take a trip down memory lane. See how you fell in love.” 

Dean makes a rude noise. “We’re just friends, Jo.” She rolls her eyes hard enough that she can probably see herself think and grabs Dean by the hand.

The now-familiar cyclone feeling disorients him for a moment and he finds that he and Jo are watching Past Dean and Cas, dressed in FBI clothes, in the Sheriff’s Department in Waterville, Maine. 

Dean remembers this, Cas’s first time pretending to be an agent.

_“Deputy Framingham?” Dean asks. The deputy turns around. Dean holds up an FBI ID. “Hi. Alonzo Mosely, FBI. This is my partner, Eddie Moscone.” He turns to look at Cas while putting his ID away. Cas does nothing. “Also FBI,” Dean prompts, annoyance clear in his voice. Cas still does nothing. Dean stares at him, incredulous. Cas finally catches on and pulls out his FBI ID, which he displays upside-down. Dean turns it over for him. “He's, uh, he's new. Mind if we ask you a few questions?” Cas looks at the ID curiously._

Dean had forgotten how earnest Cas had been. How eager to help, to be useful. And how that had tugged at his heartstrings.

_The scene changes. Now they’re in the strange greenish half-light of Purgatory. He sees Dean, Benny at his back, making their way through the endless forest. They crest a small hill, looking around, wary of attack. There at the bottom, crouching warily at the edge of a stream, Cas is washing his hands and face._

_Dean starts down the hill. “Cas!” Cas stands up as Dean strides over, trailed by Benny. Dean says, “Cas” again and laughs and hugs him. “Damn, it's good to see you. Nice peach fuzz.”_

Dean’s stunned. The look on his own face when he finally finds Cas, gets his arms around him, it’s a revelation. That’s not just relief on his face, it’s something much, much more. He’s stuck thinking about this, and only Jo’s impatient elbow in his ribs draws his attention back to the scene before him. He’s missed some of the conversation, but he remembers what’s next, him begging Cas to come with Benny and him and escape Purgatory.

_Dean says, “Hold on, hold on. Cas, we're getting out of here. We're going home.” Cas won’t look at him, he keeps his eyes fixed on the forest._

_“Dean, I can't.” Cas’s voice holds so much pain._

_“You can. Benny, tell him.” Dean flicks his eyes to Benny for a second and then fastens them back on Cas._

_Benny turns towards them. “Purgatory has an escape hatch, but I got no idea if it's angel-friendly.”_

_“We'll figure it out.” Dean gestures, flinging his arms wide. “Cas, buddy, I need you.”_

_“Dean…” Cas tries to argue, but Dean plows ahead, trying to put some encouragement into his voice, forcing a smile._

_“And if Leviathan want to take a shot at us, let ‘em. We ganked those bitches once before. We can do it again.”_

_Cas isn’t buying it. “It's too dangerous.”_

_Dean looks around the clearing, alert for danger. “Let me bottom-line it for you. I'm not leaving here without you. Understand?”_

_Cas looks strangely subdued, but answers. “I understand.”_

“‘I need you,’” Jo says, her wings fluttering a bit. “‘I’m not leaving here without you.’ Jesus, Dean, you sure do dance around saying what you really mean.”

“Shut up, Jo.” There’s no real heat in his voice.

_The scene changes: a restaurant, windows shaped like sailboats, Dean and Cas are sitting at a table, burgers on plates in front of them on a blue-checked tablecloth._

_Cas is studying a bottle he’s holding in his hands. “Is ketchup a vegetable?”_

_“Hell, yes,” Dean says. “All right, so spill. What’s with the family reunion?” He looks at Cas and pops the last bite of his burger into his mouth._

_“I don’t know. I’ve just been … thinking about people.” Dean glances around, then switches their plates, taking Cas’ burger and setting his empty plate in front of Cas. Cas continues, “I’ve helped some, but I’ve … I’ve hurt some.”_

_“So you’re having a midlife crisis,” Dean says, taking a big bite of Cas’s burger._

_“Well, I’m extremely old. I think I’m entitled,” Cas says, looking off into the distance._

_“Cas, listen to me,” Dean’s talking with his mouth full. “There’s some stuff you just gotta let go. Okay? The people you let down, the ones you can’t save … You gotta forget about them. For your own good.”_

_Cas looks at Dean. “Is that what you do?”_

_Dean grins, owning the truth of what he says next. “That’s the opposite of what I do. But I ain’t exactly a role model.” He smiles fondly at Cas._

“ _That’s not true.” Cas is very earnest. Dean looks at him and laughs, clearly not believing him._

_“Yeah.” It’s dismissive._

_“How are you, Dean?” Cas is so painfully sincere with the question._

_“Fine,” Dean says. Cas gives him a skeptical look. “I’m great!”_

_“No, you’re not,” Cas says. Dean can’t hold Cas’s eyes. He looks down at his burger, visibly discomfited._

Dean remembers how fucking fond of Cas he felt that day, seeing him want to take care of Claire, how seeing Cas care about someone else just made him so damn happy. And truth be told, despite how he deflected, it made him warm inside that Cas was worried about him too, cared about him too.

The scene changes. Dean can see himself in a confessional. The shadow of the screen half obscuring his face.

“No, Jo. Nope. Not going here,” Dean says firmly. He does not want to replay this one. It cuts too close to the bone.

“Just watch, Dean.”

_Father Delaney’s voice comes from the other side of the confessional screen. “Is there anything else on your mind, Agent Allman?”_

Dean smiles wryly, “What if I said I…I didn’t want to die…yet, you know, that I wasn’t ready?”

_“Are you expecting to?” the priest asks._

_“Always.” Dean presses his lips together. “You know, the life I live, the work I do…I pretty much just figured that that was all there was to me, you know? Tear around and jam the key in the ignition and haul ass until I ran out of gas. I guess I just thought sooner or later, I’d go out the same way that I live – pedal to the metal, and that would be it.”_

_“But now?” he prompts._

_“Now, um… recent events,” Dean looks down, eyes unfocused, “uh… make me think I might be closer to that than I really thought. And…I don’t know. I mean, you know, there’s – there’s things, there’s…people, feelings that I-I-I want to experience differently than I have before, or maybe even for the first time.”_

Dean turns to her “Okay Jo. Okay. Stop. I get it. Really.” He takes a deep breath. “Say it’s true. Say I do love him. How do I know he feels the same way? How can I take the chance, tell him? I mean, if he just feels protective of me, or thinks we’re buddies or whatever, what then?

“This is your problem, Dean. You have no faith,” she says, flipping her curls back over her shoulder. 

“That’s _such_ a cop out Jo. And real funny quoting Cas at me.” He snaps. But she’s gone. The world turns upside down for a moment, and then Dean’s on his bed again, the ticking of the clock on his bedside table the only sound.

***

Well, the last ghost is sure taking their sweet time. Dean’s got an inkling of who it’s gonna be, and sure enough, as he’s lying on his bed resting his eyes, the room gets cold again and he recognizes the sound of someone clearing his throat.

“Evening, Bobby,” he says with his eyes still closed.

“Dean,” Bobby answers gruffly.

Dean opens his eyes and Bobby is standing there in jeans and a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up, a down vest over top, and his trucker hat firmly on his head. He does not look happy to be there, and that makes Dean smile.

“What are you smiling at, boy?”

“You, old man.” 

“Well, get your ass outta that bed, this ain’t Saturday morning. We got things to do.”

“What are you here to show me, Bobby?”

“What’s gonna happen if you don’t tell him how you feel.” 

“Huh. Real Ghost of Christmas Future stuff. Gonna show me my grave? ‘Cause, newsflash, I already seen it. From the inside.”

“Not exactly, smart ass. Now shut up and get over here.”

Dean sighs and gets off the bed, reaching out to take Bobby’s proffered hand.

_The scene changes and Dean sees himself sitting on a motel-room bed, head tipped back, draining the last drops of whiskey out of a glass, the empty bottle on its side on the table between the beds. Sam isn’t there. Cas isn’t there. On the other bed his duffel is open. A glimpse of water-stained tan fabric is visible in the opening._

Dean has only vague memories of this room. The weeks after Cas died in the reservoir were a blur of whiskey and guilt. Less vague, sharp even, are the memories of the sick flavour of his grief, the pain like shards of glass in his stomach. The empty dullness of the relief he found in the bottle. 

Dean turns to tell Bobby that he’s had enough, he doesn’t want to linger here, but the cyclone winds rise again. 

_When they abate, Dean sees himself and Sam sitting on a concrete block on an old wooden dock. Behind them the sky is the misty grey of early morning. Bare trees decorate the far side of the river, which is flat and glassy in the still air. Sam stands up and claps Dean on the shoulder before walking off. Dean looks down at the piece of wood in his hand._

Dean remembers this. He hadn’t lost Cas to death that time, but to Lucifer. And knowing that Lucifer was possessing Cas, and that Cas had said yes, hurt almost as badly. He had been numb and hopeless. Bobby, or Charlie, or whoever sent them -- Chuck probably -- sure wanted to make Dean hurt. 

The scene changes again, but it _feels_ different this time, it doesn’t feel like the past. 

_It’s the library in the bunker. Dean is sitting, turning the pages of an old grimoire, three empty beer bottles competing with the book for room on the table. He’s older, hair greying, more creases around his eyes. He shifts uncomfortably in his chair, rubbing occasionally at his left hip. A cellphone at his elbow emits a short blast of Zeppelin’s_ Black Dog _, and he puts it to his ear._

_“Sammy! Hey I was just thinking about you. How are you? Eileen? Good, good. Yeah, just doin’ a little research. Remember the arachnes back in 2010? 2011? Yeah, Rhode Island. I think there’s one in Ann Arbor, I’m thinking of driving up to check it out.” He stands up and stretches, wanders a bit stiffly into the bunker’s kitchen, and opens the fridge as he listens to his brother on the other end of the phone. The kitchen is silent, like the rest of the bunker. “Sam, I don’t need backup, just a sharp machete.”_

_He pulls a beer out of the fridge. “Cas? No, no I’m not going to call him for this.” He’s quiet again as Sam speaks. “Listen, I don’t even know where he is right now. Last I heard, he was working a vetala case in Miami, but that was probably six weeks ago.” He stops and pops the cap off the beer and takes a swallow. “Yeah, he drops by every few months to check on me, but he never stays long. He gets antsy and leaves. To be honest, I figured he talked more to you these days than to me.” Dean shuffles back to the library and puts the full beer down next to the empties. “Okay Sam, I gotta go. This case isn’t going to research itself. Yeah, you too. Bye.”_

Dean is shaken more than he’ll admit by this glimpse of Future Dean, alone in the silence of the bunker. “Okay, Bobby. I get it. I’m lost without him.” He sounds bitchy and ungrateful, even to his own ears.

“You are. And now you have a chance to tell him, to change that. You’re both alive, and Lucifer ain’t riding either one of you right now.”

“But…”

“But nothing! Man up and tell him. I didn’t raise a coward, boy.”

Before Dean can answer this, he finds himself back in his bedroom. Alone. 

***

Dean wakes up all at once. It’s morning. Christmas morning. It’s not London in the 1800s, he’s not summoned out of bed by church bells, but he feels the same anxiety that Scrooge did when he threw open the window to ask what day it was. What actually beckons him down the hallway into the kitchen is the scent of coffee. The scent of coffee and the chance to talk to Cas.

Sam’s still sleeping, if the sound of snoring continuing to emanate from his room is any indication. Dean pauses at the kitchen door and looks in. It’s not empty, as it was in his vision of the future. Cas is leaning against the counter, dressed in a faded Rolling Stones tee and sweatpants, coffee in hand. Unshaven and his hair a wild nest. It’s the best thing Dean’s ever seen. Cas looks up from his mug and smiles. “Merry Christmas, Dean.” 

And Dean can see it now. How could he have missed it before? Dean can see it in his eyes. He can see how Cas feels. He crosses the room and takes Cas’s mug out of his hand, ignoring his small sound of protest. He puts the mug down on the counter.

“Merry Christmas, Cas.” Instead of telling Cas how he feels, Dean shows him. He takes Cas’s face in his hands and leans in and kisses him gently. He pulls back and Cas looks at him wonderingly.

“Dean?” he says, and wastes no time in grabbing Dean by the lapels of his robe and pulling him in for another kiss.

They finally part a few minutes later when they hear a noise from the door. Sam is standing there, grinning like a maniac. “Finally. Fucking _finally_. Looks like this is an extra-special holiday for you guys. What made you pull your head out of your ass and come to your senses, Dean?”

“Don't be a Scrooge, Sammy. Can’t you just enjoy our happiness?”

“I think I”m gonna leave you alone to enjoy your happiness. I’m gonna go for a run.” Sam grabs a mug of coffee and heads back towards the door, calling over his shoulder, “Merry Christmas, guys. And Chuck bless us, every one.”


End file.
